


can't change my attitude (but i can change my shirt)

by tomorrowisforeverallours



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowisforeverallours/pseuds/tomorrowisforeverallours
Summary: Webster takes a hit on the patrol but hides it, unwilling to risk being separated from Easy again. Liebgott, of course, is the one to find him out.





	can't change my attitude (but i can change my shirt)

**Author's Note:**

> remembered that BoB exists like... two weeks ago? redevoured the series and fell headfirst into the fandom. other fics to come. 
> 
> these two are... ridiculous in the best/worst of ways. 
> 
> title from Mother Mother's 'Dread in My Heart.' I seem to only discover new music when i need a goddamn title for something.
> 
> Fictional lives of fictional characters, based on semi-fictional portrayals of real people.

All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

That's what Webster tells himself, at least, staring into the death-dull eyes of Jackson, a private whom no more than 24 hours ago had pulled him into the back of a truck with a steady hand and honest eyes.

He was one of - what, maybe three? - people that hadn't looked at him like he was mud on the bottom of their goddamn boots since he'd got back to Easy, and now he was dead.

_War never changes._

Around him, the rest of the patrol sinks into the same numbness with the realization of Jackson’s death. Martin scrounges up a blanket to cover the corpse, tucking it almost gently under it; the fabric immediately begins to stain with spilled lifeblood. Heffron wraps an arm around Doc Roe, whose eyes are dark and wet and stare endlessly into nothing as he absently rubs blood into his cuticles. Watching them all is Lieutenant Jones, expression unreadable but hands shaking as he holds his gun.

Webster can't even muster the ability to feel sorry for the guy. He'd wanted experience. Experience means death.

As things settle down, he is abruptly reminded of the two German prisoners, who begin to plead for their lives in earnest. Their voices grate on him and Webster rounds on them with the gun, barking orders with vitriol he hadn't known was in him. _"Shut up! Shut UP, you fucking Nazi kraut bastards, and maybe I won't blow your fucking brains out before you can even blink! Get in the corner! Shut up!"_

"Webster," interrupts Martin, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "I think they get the point."

Webster glares at the two cowering prisoners, but suddenly yelling seems pointless. Everything - this whole damn war - is pointless, and a man (boy) had died because of Regiment's desire for some probably pointless intel. Even his anger is pointless, and it fades as fast as it'd come, leaving Webster with nothing but heartache and a strange burn in his side. Martin's touch jolts him and he bites back a gasp, blue eyes squeezing closed for a second in pain.

Had he been hit? Webster doesn't remember being hit. Then again, he'd read about how adrenaline could keep someone going long after they'd been wounded. He'd _certainly_ felt his leg wound, though.

Martin is busy dismissing them, and tells Webster he can go as soon as Captain Nixon and his men arrive with a different translator. He glances at Doc Roe, wondering if he ought to stop the medic and ask for a quick check-up, but...

That sounds weak. And weak is the last thing Webster wants to seem like right now, not when he's just rejoined Easy. The men don't need another reason to think he's trying to cop out of everything.

If he is hurt, it can't be that bad. Doesn't hurt that bad, and nobody's noticed it yet.

(Are they even looking, though?)

Webster can take care of it himself, he decides, gun trained on the two prisoners as he waits for backup. If his hands shake a little more drastically than usual, well, he doesn't need to aim to kill them anyway.

It can't be more than a few minutes before the roar of a Jeep signals the arrival of Captain Nixon, but it feels like an eternity. The adrenaline rush of the escape has faded, leaving Webster exhausted and intimately aware of the burning pain in his side. He doesn't dare risk taking his eyes off the prisoners to check it out, though, not until the door slams open and a trio of stern-faced troopers flood into the room.

Webster's halfhearted salute is met with an even less official wave from Captain Nixon, whose tired eyes scan the prisoners for a moment before settling on him. "They speak only German?" he asks.

"As far as I know, sir."

"Fine. We'll take it from here, Web, so go get some sleep." Webster shifts awkwardly as Nixon really looks at him for a moment, then says in low undertones, "Have you seen a medic?"

Figures that an intelligence officer - an Ivy Leaguer like Webster, too - would see through his deceptively calm expression. In an equally quiet voice, he responds, "It's not that bad, sir. I'll be fine."

"Hmm. Well, I'll take your word for it, then," Nixon shrugs, turning away from him. Webster thanks God that the Captain isn't going to interrogate him anymore, as he obviously has different targets on his mind.

"Am I dismissed, sir?"

"Yeah, yeah. Dismissed."

With a sigh of relief, Webster finally lets his rifle fall to his side, alleviating some of the ache in his muscles. With nothing but a glance back at the German prisoners, he walks out into the night.

Webster knows he ought to find somewhere secluded to check out his wound, but his legs are on autopilot back to 2nd Platoon's billet. By the time he gets there, he's gasping every couple of steps, but it's nothing he can't handle, right? Sergeant Malarkey is leaning halfway out the window to smoke and gives him a wave.

"Everything alright, Webster?"

"All clear, Sarge," he responds blankly as he opens the door.

The first floor of their billet is deserted, but Webster can hear the stomping and talking of men overhead - Heffron's weary voice, Ramirez and his distinctive laughter. There is a singular lantern at the bottom of the stairs. Webster snags it on his way back to the now-defunct bathroom, where the flickering light casts fairy-tale shadows on the wall.

Webster eases himself onto the edge of the clawfoot tub with a slow inhale. He's not sure what he expects to see, but it has to be done, so with trembling hands he begins to unbutton his ODs.

His undershirt is white and freshly laundered, which means the blood-dark stain on the side is unmistakable. He winces, then pokes the injury and lets out a gasp of pain - it burns, but not like the bullet in his leg had, so it can't be that bad.

He's halfway through the buttons when there is a loud clamor and a lot of swearing from outside the room. "What the fuck! Who the fuck moved the lantern?" Liebgott's pained voice shouts, and Webster half-smirks at the thought of the other soldier fumbling around in the dark. His amusement doesn't last long, though, because then: "Ah, who the hell took it in the bathroom? Webster, you in there? You better not be taking a shit in that toilet, or I'll have you cleaning it out with your bare hands."

"Liebgott, that's disgusting," responds Webster, too preoccupied with getting his shirt unstuck from his wound to realize his mistake.

Liebgott crows in triumph, voice coming closer. "Aha, so it is you? What, you in the tub daydreamin' about cushy hospital baths? Bet those nurses sponged you down _real_ good."

He doesn't respond to that one. Webster folds his shirt and puts it aside, breath coming shallower now with the effort of moving his left arm, because every twitch of those muscles hurts. His undershirt is halfway over his head when Webster realizes Liebgott has stopped taunting him -

And he hadn't locked the door.

He follows through with the motion just as the lamplight illuminates Liebgott's features, standing in the doorway. His pale skin virtually glows in the dark, contrasted by the mussed tangle of black hair and those piercing eyes. They meet Webster's for a moment before flicking downward, widening in surprise.

Webster waits for the laughter, or the insults, or even for the door to slam in his face as Liebgott goes to slander him in front of the entire 2nd Platoon. _Hey, look at Webster! First mission back on the line and he's already hurt himself! What a dumb motherfucker!_  Then he'll be sent off the line again, back to an aid station where it's nothing but reading weeks-old magazines and listening to the sounds of men dying. Away from Easy, again.

It's a future that makes Webster sick to his stomach. He stares Liebgott down, though, because he's tired of avoiding the man's eyes. He's tired of being brushed off and second-guessed and if his comeback is going to come crumbling down here, well, he's going to face it like a goddamn Harvard man.

Liebgott blinks. Then he slowly closes the door behind him. "Alright, now what the fucking hell did you do to yourself, pretty boy?" he murmurs, gaze focused not on Webster's face, but his side.

Webster ignores the nickname, and finally takes the chance to check himself: beneath the dried and still-oozing blood, there is a deep furrow in his side, where a shot must have grazed him. He's lucky, though - couple inches over and his intestines would be spilling out onto the dewy Hagenau grass. He shudders at the thought.

"Mind your own business, Liebgott," he says. "Besides, it's not like I shot myself."

(Someday, soon, Heffron will let him know what happened to Hoobler. It's not a joke he'll make again.)

"Mind my own - if you're bleeding out on the floor of our billet bathroom, that's automatically my fucking business, Harvard," snaps Liebgott.

"I'm not dying. It's just a scratch."

"You seen Doc Roe?"

"No." Webster tries to keep his expression steady, but it's hard when Liebgott looks at him like he's the world's most distinguished imbecile. "Look, it's nothing. I can take care of it myself." He awkwardly tries to reposition the lantern for better lighting, then fumbles to snag his aid kit without aggravating the injury too much.

After a moment of watching, Liebgott makes an irritated sound and stalks forward. He jerks around in Webster's pack for a minute, ignoring his vehement protests, and resurfaces with their Army-issue flashlight. Its power blinds them both for a moment, but when Webster's eyes adjust, all he can focus on is the way Liebgott's lips are pressed together in a thin line.

He shoves the flashlight into his hand. "Hold this," says Liebgott, and then takes the liberty to rifle through Webster's aid kit on his own.

"Hey -"

"You got something to clean up with or something?"

"Oh, uh, here."

Webster leans down to grab his discarded shirt, which Liebgott scrutinizes for a moment before snagging it from him. "Whatever. It's already stained, anyway." With one hand he unscrews his canteen, dampening the shirt with his own precious ration of water. Webster gasps as the other hand splays across his stomach, fingers ice-cold against his skin. Bar the economical ministrations of the hospital nurses, it's the most skin-to-skin contact he's had since the start of the war, and a strange warmth seems to radiate from that single point of connection. He looks down at Liebgott, who is all sharp angles and irascible expression, but his touch is almost gentle as he dabs away the flaking blood.

"Liebgott?"

"The fuck you want?"

"What are you doing?"

Liebgott's eyes flicker up to meet his; the air itself seems to solidify into a barrier between them, save for the single line of contact between Liebgott's fingertips and his skin. "Christ, Harvard, the fuck d'you think I'm doing? Now, care to explain why you didn't go see the Doc?"

"I told you, it's barely a scratch." Webster angles the flashlight to see better, and now that most of the blood is gone they can see it is, in fact, a relatively clean injury. Still hurts, though, especially when Liebgott pokes the open wound. "Ow! Hey, watch it!"

"Looks like a rat took an entrenching tool to ya," mutters Liebgott, drawing a laugh out of Webster before he can help it.

"That's a stupid fucking way to describe it," he says, grin still twitching at his lips.

"You got a better idea?"

"...no, but -"

"Well then, shut yer trap."

Webster laughs again, but it quickly turns to a shout of pain as Liebgott ambushes him with the sulfa powder. Doubling over, he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the burning sensation; only when the pain winds down can he decipher the unending rambles that Liebgott is rasping in his ear, register the comforting slide of a thumb against his cheekbone and the new bandage wrapping around his waist. "Hey, you're alright, Web. Ain't that bad. Give it a couple of days and you'll be good as new, 'cept for the scar. And that you can show off to all those prissy Harvard ladies."

He chokes out another laugh. "Who said I was interested in Harvard ladies?" he says, the words slipping from his lips almost carelessly.

He knows he's not the only one - hell, Easy's full of men like him. It's one of the reasons he'd applied for a transfer in the first place; after a long night with Captain Nixon, drunken conversation peppered with references to Achilles and Patroclus, Apollo and Hyacinthus, Zeus and Ganymede, Nixon and Winters... Webster had decided there was no other company better suited to his tastes.

Liebgott's fingers carelessly dig into the wound and Webster hisses, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth. "Hey, watch it!"

"What the fuck does that mean?" snaps Liebgott, in the same quiet tone, but he doesn't sound angry. He sounds almost... hopeful.

"What does _what_ mean?"

"You 'aren't interested in Harvard ladies'?"

 _Ah, fuck._ "It means what it means," Webster shrugs, almost absurdly casual even as raid sirens go off in his head. That slip of the tongue could cost him everything - and knowing Liebgott, it just might. The guy would probably take any excuse to humiliate him, get him discharged and away from Easy for good. And there's no point in trying to convince him not to say anything. Liebgott's never been convinced of a damn thing in his life.

 _Maybe he won't get it,_ Webster thinks near-hysterically, blue eyes darting anywhere except for Liebgott's face. Maybe he'll just think Webster is interested in other types of women. But what sort of normal man _wouldn't_ be interested in a Harvard girl? Oh, Christ almighty, he's ruined.

Webster doesn't realize that he's trembling, nor the labored nature of his breathing, until Liebgott's hand lands squarely on his cheek. The man is sporting that sharkish grin of his, and Webster opens his mouth to tell the man off for being such an obnoxious prick, _just get it over with already,_ and then Liebgott's thumb brushes his lower lip, slow and sweet, and the words evaporate.

"Stop thinking so much, Web," mutters Liebgott, and then he leans in.

Now, he's kissed plenty of people before - how could he not have, with a face like his? - but somehow all that experience flies out of Webster's brain the second that Liebgott's lips touch his. His lips are chapped but soft, pressing firmly against Webster's mouth like they belong there, and there's even a hint of tongue before Liebgott pulls away to breathe, "You gonna sit there like a bump on a log, Harvard, or you gonna kiss me back?"

And isn't that a challenge.

Webster growls and leans forward to capture Liebgott's mouth in a fierce kiss, unwilling to let this insufferable bastard have the last word, even if he's got no clue what the fuck is happening anymore. He throws one arm around Liebgott's shoulders and twines the other hand into that perfect hair, curling strands around his fingers as Liebgott's hands run up and down his sides, making him shiver. By the time they're both equally out of breath, all coherent thought has flown from Webster's mind.

He's the first one to pull away, panting hot breaths over Liebgott's cheek as he struggles to recompose himself. "Lieb?"

"Yeah, David?" whispers Liebgott, grinning despite his own shortness of breath, and boy does _that_ do something to him.

"What... what was that?"

"That, my friend, is called a kiss - ow."

"No, you asshole," Webster says, drawing his hand from the back of Liebgott's head. "What... why did you do that?"

Liebgott sits back on his haunches for a moment, staring into the darkness as if even he's trying to figure out the answer. Then he glances up at Webster and gives him that shark-sharp grin. "I dunno. Figured since I don't like Harvard ladies much either, I'd see what it's like with a Harvard man."

 _Oh._ So Liebgott's like him too. Webster's breath leaves him in a rush of relief, and he even finds himself smiling. "Oh, yeah? So what'd you think?"

"Eh, it was alright," Liebgott bluffs. "Figured out how to shut your damn mouth for once."

"Are you going to kiss me every time you want me to shut up?" Webster's not sure what he hopes the answer to be.

Liebgott snorts and flips his mussed hair out of his eyes. "Don't get your hopes up, Web. That one was a test run. After this? You gotta _earn_ my kisses."

Webster snorts. "Do I have to get shot again?"

"Hell no! Opposite, actually. Keep your scrawny ass safe and maybe then I'll think about rewarding you," he quips. "Deal?"

"Why do you care if I stay safe, Liebgott?" asks Webster, in lieu of an answer. The question has been in the back of his mind since the man had first fallen to his knees like a supplicant in front of him, language harsh but bathside manner gentler than any nurse he'd seen. Once they'd realized that he probably wasn't going to die, it went from soft reassurances to the bare essentials of comfort. Not that Webster really blames them - when there are hundreds of hurt men, you have to save your compassion for the ones that really need it.

Liebgott has no reason to be so nice to him, though. Liebgott _hates_ him -- hates him for not being at Bastogne, hates him for being educated and well-off and pretentious and talkative and all the other things he simply can't help but be. Nowadays, Webster doesn't even blame him. And all the kissing only makes things more complicated.

He stares Liebgott down, wanting nothing more than an honest answer. "You didn't have to help me. You don't have to pretend to like me. I'd actually rather you not, if you're just going to go back to swearing at me in the morning."

 _Don't get my hopes up,_ he says with his eyes. _Don't make me care about you if you won't care about me._

Their gazes meet finally, and Webster flounders for a literary reference to best describe the _stoicity_ and _worry_ and _tenderness_ in Liebgott's eyes, but all that comes to mind is the dark roast coffee they get in their drops: bitter, seemingly unpalatable, but with a spark of warmth that reminds you what it feels like to be alive.

Then Liebgott exhales through his nose and pulls Webster to his feet. "Come on, boy, let's get some rest. You can see Doc in the morning."

He stubbornly resists the tug on his arm. "You didn't answer my question."

"Ya didn't ask me one."

"Yes, I did, I asked -"

"Alright, lemme take that back, you asked a stupid fucking question that doesn't need an answer," Liebgott retorts, before turning around and pressing their lips together again. The kiss is brief, feather-light, but sweet enough to say all the things that the man seems to struggle with putting into words. And Webster, who is typically nothing but words, finds himself speechless at the way Lieb's features soften, until he is nothing more than the reckless young man they all were before this Godforsaken war, smiling at him in the dim lantern-light.

"You get it now, Harvard?" he whispers, breath fanning over shared space.

That look means something; that kiss means something; Webster decides to put aside words for once and just take it as it is. "Yeah, I think I can figure it out."

"Good. Now come on," Liebgott responds. His hand on the small of Webster's back burns as hot as any bullet graze, but he decides it's a pain he can tolerate.


End file.
